


silence

by timelordswillwasteyou



Category: K (Anime)
Genre: First Kiss, Kusanagi's POV, Light Angst, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-05
Updated: 2020-01-05
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:34:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22131865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/timelordswillwasteyou/pseuds/timelordswillwasteyou
Summary: The stairs leading down to the bar, despite years of use, are mostly silent.Or, Kusanagi bears witness to a painfully familiar moment of intimacy.
Relationships: Fushimi Saruhiko/Yata Misaki
Comments: 8
Kudos: 124





	silence

**Author's Note:**

> i don't know why i'm so into kusanagi narrating others' relationships, but here we are again. started this 6 months ago and was randomly motivated to finish. it's not great, the characterization could def be better, but even so, i hope someone enjoys :)

The stairs leading down to the bar, despite years of use, are mostly silent; unlike the bar itself, they are not made of sturdy, robust wood, but despite this, somehow, they make no noise, emit no sound, when bearing weight. Kusanagi knows this, has known it intellectually for years, has been snuck up on by Totsuka many times because of it, those silent stairs an accomplice in many a prank played at his expense, has thought, oh, if only the stairs had given them away. 

There is, however, one tiny giveaway, which he has picked up on recently, has kicked himself for not having picked up on sooner: a minuscule squeak, the quietest creak of wood against gravity. The rebel is the second step to the bottom, right before you turn the corner and come into view of the bar, and he has only noticed it since the bar has become quieter, since the extra rooms upstairs became vacant, since the upstairs became nearly as silent as the stairs themselves. But only someone listening incredibly (unnecessarily) closely for years to every creak and sway of the building would notice it -- only he would notice it, and anyone else sitting in the main room downstairs, anyone otherwise occupied, would be unaware of another presence on the stairs. 

Kusanagi has known this, has been the victim of it. It is another thing, though, to find himself on the other end of the silence provided by the stairs; to bear witness to a moment whose own quiet and intimacy shocks him into inaction. And so as he passes the second to last step to the bottom, comes around the corner to the bar, he can't help but stop, to bear witness to a painfully familiar scene, albeit with a quite different cast.

Yata has his hands on either side of his companion's neck, fingers tapping nervous and fond patterns into skin mostly hidden under long (too long) dark hair, and even with half of his face out of view Kusanagi can see the warmth of a blush lighting up his cheeks. Fushimi, for his part, seems frozen; he is facing away from Kusanagi, but his body is rigid, his posture unsure, hands hanging limply at his sides but shoulders pitched forward toward Yata, as if he wants to be closer but is uncertain he's allowed. His frame is visibly trembling; Kusanagi can see this even from across the room. After a moment, another moment of Yata's fingers tracing his neck and winding into the ends of his hair, Fushimi moves, hands twitching at his sides before one goes to Yata's hip, slowly, waiting to be batted away; and when it isn't, the other goes to one of Yata's wrists, holding his hand at his neck, keeping him close, something quietly desperate in all his movements, and Yata is looking at him with wonder, amazement, love, eyes shining with something unnamed and unspeakably intimate: a reflection, Kusanagi imagines, of Fushimi's expression, only perhaps with less doubt, less confusion as to why he's being looked at this way.

He should leave them, knows this, is about to turn to sneak out the side door (also somehow, blessedly silent) beside the stairs, but he's frozen in place, drawn in by the dimmed (romantic, he thinks) lights, the muted atmosphere, the intimacy that precedes a first meeting of lips he knows has been years in the coming.

Fushimi leans in first, or maybe Yata pulls him in, maybe both; Kusanagi hears an intake of breath from one of them, a gasp from the other, and they separate after only a moment only to lean in to each other again a second later. It's Yata's fingers stroking at the small of Fushimi's back that snaps him out of his intrusion - Mikoto used to do the same thing, the motion intimate in its simplicity, to Totsuka, and Kusanagi finds the edges of his eyes are wet with the memory reflected back to him in this moment.

Fushimi gasps again, the wet parting and coming together of their mouths audible in the silence, and that's his cue.

He turns to leave, pushing open that silent side door into the alleyway where Fushimi and Yata had left each other all those years ago, and takes out a cigarette once he's sure the door has closed, reliably, without a sound. He sighs, flicking his fingers to light up, something simultaneously melancholy and happy stirring in his chest at the thought of the two younger men not ten meters behind him. As much as they remind him of his best friends, of their relationship, they're also different, will forge their own path by each others' side, will do it without influence from Kings or clans or Slates, will be better and stronger for it. Kusanagi will make sure their fate does not match his clanmates'.

He sighs, equal parts determined and sad, as ever. He checks that the door is locked, takes the first puff from his cigarette, starts walking home. Those two will be just fine, he thinks, and that just might be enough to carry his weary soul through the years he must now weather alone.


End file.
